


New Memories

by WhouffleLover24



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Holidays, M/M, Presents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 16:52:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13035408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhouffleLover24/pseuds/WhouffleLover24
Summary: “We all have memories. This is so you can capture new ones.”





	New Memories

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DiscordantWords](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiscordantWords/gifts).



> Happy Holidays!  
> (This version is a bit different than the one I posted on Dreamwidth; I've cleaned a few things up.)

* * *

At 221B, it was Christmas Eve and pitch dark (and had been for a while). Heavy snow fell down onto the streets; making the streets turn white and gleaming, hiding the ground’s cracks and blemishes. All the last minute Christmas shoppers were gone now, dashing quickly for warmth away from the freezing weather.

 

Inside 221B however, green and red wrapping paper flooded the lowly lit living room, the small Christmas Tree (courtesy of Mrs Hudson) glowed in the corner, and the clock on the wall showed 11:30 PM. In the midst of all of this? Sherlock, a roll of tape, and a small, rectangular grey box.

 

He sighed and sat back down in his armchair. If he had known wrapping Christmas presents was going to take a ridiculous amount of wrapping paper, maybe he wouldn't have decided to wrap his Christmas presents. In fact, he did know, but he had still wanted to wrap his presents. No matter how much of a trouble it was for him. And there was only one person to blame.

 

He turned and found himself staring at a picture of John and himself on the now newspaper-cleared mantle. “Oh John,” he muttered, “what you do to me.”

 

It was a picture of the two of them, taken while Sherlock and John had been walking through the street in the snow after a rather thrilling two days before Christmas case. They both seemed to be looking at some Christmas lights. John was smiling at them while Sherlock, on the other hand, was scowling. The picture was from an old newspaper clipping that John had found while they had been repairing 221B. The newspaper clipping had been crinkled and dusty, and all the way back from 2011, but John still protested he keep it. So there it stood, on the mantle, in a cheap £1, plastic gold picture frame. Sherlock stared at the picture; reminiscing later that very night after the picture had been taken.

 

_(Wrapping paper was skewed around in the living room, John was sitting in his armchair, bright green and red wrapping paper in one hand, a piece of tape in between his teeth, with a roll of tape at his side, attempting to wrap a medium-sized white circular box. (Probably for Harry.) Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “John?”_

 

_“Mhm?” John hummed._

 

_“What are you doing?”_

 

_John yanked the piece of tape out of his mouth and placed it on a little tab of wrapping paper on the box, “Wrapping a present.”_

 

_“Yes John, I am not unobservant. But my question is why? You’re clearly having difficulty in your task. There is no reason why you should do this.”_

 

_“Sherlock, it's just a small thing people do for the people they care about. You know? Just like throwing someone a birthday party,” John said while Sherlock stared at him, still not convinced._

 

_“But what can a wrapped box provide someone? Excessive recycling and more pollution?”_

 

_“Look. It’s not just about the present. It’s the fact that the person took the effort to choose a good present for them. It’s the fact that they thought about the person that makes a present special. It’s sentimental.”_

 

_“Sentiment is just a chemical defect.”_

 

_John carefully placed another piece of tape on the wrapping paper, “If that’s what you think, that’s fine. But to me, sentiment is more than just a ‘chemical defect.’ Sentiment is what makes humans… well, human.”_

 

_The two of them didn’t talk again that night. By the time John had gone upstairs to his bed, Sherlock was waiting for the results of his mould experiment. He thought back to John’s words. Not caring about sentiment, did that make him not-human? He knew sentiment was something other people viewed as a contributor trait but was it so important to them as John made it seem? He brushed off the thought; he could think about that later. Now, he had some mould cultures to study and get rid of before John woke up.)_

 

Sherlock faintly smiled at the memory. He might’ve not understood sentiment then. And he didn’t. Sentiment is ridiculous. But he would be lying if he said he had never felt sentiment.

 

_Knock, knock, knock._

 

Faint knocks were heard at the door, summoning Sherlock to it. He hauled himself out of his chair, his thin robe swishing behind him; he placed the silver wrapped box on the bookshelf and continued his way to the door. It was presumably Mrs Hudson. No client would ever be here on Christmas Eve, especially in the freezing weather. He opened the door,

 

“Hello, Mrs. Hud- “

 

He stopped. It wasn’t Mrs. Hudson.

 

“John? Rosie?”

 

There was John. He was shivering and his teeth chattered; his green winter coat was covered in dusty snow, and he was holding a pink coat clad Rosie in his arms. Even so, a huge grin was plastered on his face, “Can I come in?”

 

Sherlock blinked blankly a few times, “Oh -um, yes. Come in.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

He stepped inside and set his coat in his old armchair while Sherlock closed the door behind him. He cleared his throat, “Tea?”

 

John nodded, “Tea would be lovely.”

 

Sherlock nodded and turned swiftly away to put the kettle on, carefully selecting two mugs from the shelve. The rest was a simple process, and within ten minutes they were both sitting in their armchairs, sipping mugs of tea; Rosie cuddled on John’s lap, sleeping peacefully. The two of them sitting in comfortable silence. John didn’t seem to mind the wrapping paper, and if he did, he didn’t mention it. Sherlock supposed it was because after living with Sherlock for nearly four years, he got used to perpetual mess.

 

“So,” Sherlock started, “what brings you here? Your house is far from here, and with the snow outside, it would have been nonsensical to drive here.”

 

John chuckled, and Sherlock cocked his head at him, “What? There are at least five inches of snow on the ground. There has got to be a reason you came. Did your car break down? Do you need help? Did something happen-”

 

John cut him off by the rise of his hand, “I came here on the Tube. And the reason I came was to visit you, you dolt. It’s Christmas Eve, people visit people they love and care about around this time of year, remember? It’s-”

 

“-sentimental.” Sherlock completed.

 

John’s eyes widened in surprise, “Yeah, yeah it is” his eyebrow furrowed, “How did you know that? I thought you didn’t care for, or even understand things like sentiment.”

 

“I… don’t. But you’re the one who told me about it. Six years ago.”

 

“You remember that?” John’s expression was incredulous.

 

“Of course,” Sherlock’s looked away at the window, “I remember everything you say.”

 

“Wait a tick. Is Sherlock Holmes being sentimental?”

 

Sherlock scowled, “Oh shut up.” But John’s shit-eating grin didn’t fade.

 

A few minutes passed in comfortable silence, whilst the two of them finished their tea. John shifting Rosie on his lap every few seconds.

 

Sherlock cleared his throat and set his mug on the floor to the side of him, “John?”

 

“Mm?”

 

“If I spoke to you something that could never escape from the two of us, could I confide in you?”

 

“Of course,” John’s face morphed into something akin to concern, “is there anything you need to tell me?”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth. He had so many things he wanted- no needed- to tell John. But alternatively, he responded, “No- there’s nothing. I was merely inquiring.” John didn’t say anything, but his face showed that he didn’t completely believe Sherlock.

 

They settled back into silence until, suddenly, they were encompassed in darkness. All the lights had abruptly been flicked off, and the minimal light from the moon was their only source of light.

 

“What the hell was that?”

 

Sherlock stood up and peered out the window,“It seems we and numerous others have just become victim to a blackout. Most likely due to the snow and the frigid temperature outside.” John put down his mug and strained his neck, gazing out the window too. True to his word, across the street, the windows that were bright just moments ago, were now dark.

 

Sherlock spun around, "We're going to need blankets. At this rate, the temperature within this building will drop rapidly." John shook his head and stood up, shifting Rosie in his arms, “It’s fine, I’ll just go.”

 

Sherlock shook his head, “The Tube will close in five minutes, and no cabbie would take you anywhere in this weather. You’re going to have to stay over.”

 

Before John could object, Sherlock had left to stumble in the dark to find torches and blankets, leaving John to just shrug his shoulders in defeat and hold Rosie tighter.

 

A few minutes later, John had found a new place on the couch, and Sherlock had come back with two blankets, and two torches that were lit that he had procured from his bedroom.

 

"We need to share the blankets."

 

"W-what? W-Why?" 

 

Sherlock turned to John and said in a matter-of-fact tone, "It's going to get colder in here John. By sharing a blanket, we'll be sharing body heat. Therefore making us all warmer."

 

John nodded quickly, "O-oh yeah. Right. Yeah."

 

Sherlock nodded and settled down to the right of John. John set Rosie to the other side of the couch and made sure to wrap Rosie with one blanket, and himself and Sherlock with another one. After the two of them had settled into the couch, John had started the conversation; Asking Sherlock about any recent cases he had. Sherlock quickly went into an elaborate explanation of a case that had involved a wife, her husband’s murder, and that the killer was really their nineteen-year-old son who had been posing as innocent.

 

Every few sentences, John would interject, “Brilliant,” or “Amazing,” and Sherlock would smile and continue. That’s how their conversation went. It was as if nothing had ever changed. That he had ever faked his death, John had never gotten married, and that John had never moved out.

 

“And that’s how I knew the son was the one who slipped bleach into her husband’s drink, therefore killing him,” finished Sherlock.

 

John shook his head in wonder, “I will never understand how you do that.”

 

“It was all just simple deduction; quite elementary.”

 

Sherlock ended up telling John three more cases that he had solved before he met John. One about a chef that disappeared, another about a dead raccoon that had been stuffed with millions of dollars that had been stolen days before, and a third one (his personal favourite) a murdered clown that someone had found with a knife through his chest, and a red balloon tied around his neck. (Sherlock hadn't understood the red balloon part until John explained the movie "It" to him. Which he replied with a grumbled, "Idiotic pop-culture references.") It wasn't until 2 AM that their conversation started to dwindle, and Sherlock started to notice that John seemed to get increasingly nervous. His leg started to fidget, and his laughs became strained. Sherlock became worried. Did he do something wrong? He was just ready to ask John if something was wrong when,

 

"Hey, Sherlock? You know how you asked that if you told me something I couldn't tell anyone, I wouldn't?"

 

Sherlock felt his heartbeat skyrocket. Where was this going? "Yes?"

 

"Can I ask you something?"

 

"O-of course."

 

"If I told you something that might be a bit -oh who am I kidding- very weird, would you promise not to hate me for it?"

 

Sherlock's throat went dry, and he tried to sound plenty more confident than how he truly felt, "John, I have known you for almost eight years. We have lied to each other, hit each other, and argued countless times. I refuse to let one little weird comment change anything."

 

He watched John nod, "Y-yeah. You're right," John opened his mouth, and Sherlock thought he was going to say something, but instead, John pulled out his phone and typed something. Sherlock felt his phone buzzed just a few seconds later and he opened the text.

 

Je t'aime. -JW

 

His eyes opened comically and he looked up at John, who was staring at Sherlock intensively, trying to gauge Sherlock's reaction. He looked back down at his phone and tried to still his trembling fingers.

 

Je t'aime aussi. -SH

 

Before Sherlock could look back up at John, his phone was yanked out of his hand and he was being pressed against the arm of the couch, John's lips pressed hard against his. It was a sloppy kiss, their noses collided and their teeth clashed together, but it took Sherlock's breath away nonetheless.

 

When they parted, they were both panting. Sherlock smiled, "Really John? French?" he mock teased.

 

John laughed, "I have to agree, it was a bit ridiculous, but it worked, didn't it?"

 

"It most definitely did." Sherlock's thought process was racing. After months, even years, of pining hopelessly after John, finally, finally, his heart was put to rest.

 

Until he remembered Mary.

 

Sherlock's panic must've shown on his face because in seconds John was calling his name,

 

"Sherlock? Sherlock? What’s wrong? Sherlo-"

 

"What about Mary?" Sherlock asked abruptly. Dammit, he hadn’t thought of Mary! “I know Mary’s death was hard on you and I don’t want to push you to do anything you don’t want to.”

 

John sighed in memory of Mary and held Rosie a bit tighter before speaking, "I-I loved Mary honestly. I really did. She was important to me. To both of us,” Sherlock nodded in silent agreement, “And losing her, was devastating, don't get me wrong. But, as much as I loved her, I love you too, maybe even more. And nothing can change that."

 

Sherlock smiled in relief and pulled John down into another kiss. It was shorter but cleaner than the last one. Sherlock looked up at the clock, it was 3 AM already, “We should go to sleep before we fall asleep right here and now. That would be havoc for all of us. Including Rosie.”

 

John looked at the clock too, “Yeah.”

 

John clambered off Sherlock, shivering at the newfound chill in the air and put Rosie back into his arms. Sherlock folded and picked up the discarded blanket and turned on a torch; the three of them making their way out of the kitchen and into Sherlock’s bedroom, guided by the dim light.

 

Sherlock opened the door to his bedroom and John set Rosie down on the bed; taking off her shoes and his while Sherlock busied himself making a makeshift pillow out of a blanket for Rosie. Once Rosie was settled in between the covers of the bed, Sherlock and John slipped in on either side of her. Sherlock looked at John with half-lidded eyes and watched while John slowly fell asleep, the rise and fall of his chest, and pressed a chaste kiss to John’s forehead. Making sure not to wake John up, he murmured,

 

“Happy Christmas John Watson.”

 

And he fell asleep to John’s easy breathing.

***

That morning, when Sherlock woke up, it was 10 AM and John and Rosie were gone from the bed. For a moment, he feared that they had left, until he smelt fresh-brewed coffee wafting through the air. John had made coffee then. Then that means the power’s back on.

 

Slipping out of bed, he rinsed his mouth and made his way to the living room. (Which Sherlock noted, was wrapping paper free) Rosie and John were reading an interactive children's book, that had undoubtedly been left there from one of the many visits he had from the two of them. Rosie randomly pushing one of the many buttons, each button producing a random animal sound.

 

John looked up and smiled softly, "Good Morning Love. The snow stopped. Also, there's coffee if you want any."

 

Sherlock nodded felt a blush creeping up his cheeks at the nickname and walked quickly away to the window (The snow had indeed stopped) so to not have John notice his reddening cheeks. His efforts were futile because John, getting increasingly observant over the years, noticed.

 

"You look so cute when you blush, you know."

 

Sherlock looked away bashfully, mumbling, "No I don't."

 

John's grin widened, "Yes you do. Wait- Rosie! Don't rip the book apart!"

 

Sherlock chuckled as he watched John and Rosie wrestle over the book. He made his way over to the kitchen and poured a mug coffee into a new mug. The mugs that they had used yesterday were in the sink, clean. He frowned in confusion but figured that John had cleaned them. He always did like to be tidy.

 

He traveled back to the living room and stood next to John and Rosie, who was still trying to (what it looked like) rip apart the book (Sherlock couldn't blame her, he would too destroy that book in complete exasperation and boredom) while John kept having to gently push her hands away from the book, only for her to grab another part of the book.

 

Fortunately, Rosie stopped when she noticed Sherlock. Letting go of the book, much to John’s relief, her innocent eyes widened and she giggled and hobbled her way to Sherlock, “Sh‘lock!”

 

Sherlock picked her up and put her in his arms, “Are you having fun, Watson?”

 

She nodded happily, “Papa’s telling story!”

 

Sherlock nodded in faux seriousness, “I see. Is it a good story?”

 

“Mhmm! It makes noise!”

 

“Splendid!” He sat down on the floor, and sat her on his lap.

 

“Now Rosie,” John started, “Now that's Sherlock’s awake, let's see what Santa gave you!”

 

She clapped her hands and giggled, “Santa! Santa!”

 

John placed the medium sized box from under the small Christmas tree in front of her. It had little candy canes on the wrapping paper and was labelled, “To: Rosie, From: Santa.” The wrapping paper was exactly 8’ by 12’. It had been under the small tree for two weeks now. Sherlock should know. He and John had chosen and wrapped Rosie’s gift from “Santa.”

 

Rosie tore open the wrapping paper and (with the help from Sherlock) opened the box. It was a stuffed bee.

 

“Bee!” She exclaimed. She grabbed the bee and held it tight to her chest. If anything that had rubbed off of Sherlock and onto Rosie, it was his love for bees.

 

“Do you like your present, Rosie?” John asked.

 

Rosie nodded vigorously and climbed into Sherlock’s lap.

 

“Oh!” John said, “I got you something too Sherlock!”

 

Sherlock watched as John brandished a package from behind himself and gave it to Sherlock.

 

“Wha- how-?”

 

“I’ve been hiding it under the couch since the last time I was here. I was pretty sure you wouldn't check there. Seems like you didn't.”

 

“Ever the observant,” Sherlock joked. Nonetheless, he opened the package.

 

It was two books. One was a book that had a brown leather casing while the other had a dull, tan cover. He read the title of it, [Langstroth's Hive and Honey Bee](https://www.amazon.com/Langstroths-Hive-Honey-Bee-Classic-Beekeepers/dp/0486433846) By L.L. Langstroth. Putting it away, he grasped the leather-cased book. It, too, had a tan cover with the title Macbeth.

 

“I thought that you’d like it. With your interest in honey bees and in English literature.”

 

Sherlock timidly kissed John’s cheek, cautious not to accidentally knock Rosie off of his lap, “Thank You.... love.”

 

John beamed and lean in. Placing a small kiss on Sherlock's forehead, "You’re welcome Sherlock."

 

"I-I got you something too, by the way," Sherlock stammered.

 

"Really? You didn't have to Sherlock."

 

Sherlock looked away, "I-I know it wasn't necessary. But I-" he cleared his throat, "I wanted to."

 

John laughed, but Sherlock could tell it was fond, "Oh, you're adorable."

 

Sherlock blushed and set Rosie on the floor to climb to his feet and retrieved the silver box off the bookshelf. He handed it to John and he gratefully took it. Carefully unwrapping and opening the box, his eyes widened at the site.

 

It was a silver watch. Sherlock fidgeted in anticipation as John observed it. Sherlock must've spent hours and hours trying to pick it out. He had gone to every shop he could think of, trying to find the perfect gift. "Do you like it?"

 

John looked up at him, disbelievingly, "Do I like it? I love it, Sherlock! This is wonderful!" He continued studied the watch from the box, "How did you know I wanted a new watch?"

 

"As I said yesterday John, I remember everything that you have said to me. No matter whether it carries great or little importance."

 

John rolled his eyes playfully and took the watch out of the box carefully, taking off his old watch. Sherlock motioned towards himself, "Here, let me."

 

John gave out his wrist and Sherlock adeptly put the new silver watch on John's wrist. He let go of John's wrist and watched with delight as John admired the watch.

 

"Thank you so much, Sherlock."

 

"You're welcome.... love."

***

Later that afternoon, after they both had cooked and consumed pancakes (which almost had ended up as a glop of batter on the kitchen floor if John hadn't caught the bowl), and washed up, Sherlock, John, and Rosie all bundled up into their coats and took a walk around Regents Park.

 

Rosie pranced through the snow, throwing little bits of white into the air, John, and Sherlock following her around, laughing and playing with her. One or two tourists that weren't adapted to London’s natural happenings around them stared at the sight of two grown men rolling in the snow with a two-year-old and laughing.

 

And later that night, after a chat-filled dinner at a small 24-hour diner; John and Sherlock were sitting by a lit fire, Rosie tucked into John’s old bed, while Mrs Hudson came up and gave them a tray of tea,

 

“You’re an angel Mrs Hudson,” John remarked thankfully, grabbing a cup of tea.

 

“It was the least I could do. Sherlock gave me the most wonderful flower vase the other day.”

 

John glanced at Sherlock, his eyebrows raised and a smile on his face, “Oh did he?” Sherlock averted his attention to the fireplace, ignoring John’s gaze,

 

“Yes, he did. They’re going to go perfectly with my flowers when spring comes.”

 

John shook his head, “We really don’t do enough for you. If you ever need help with anything, just call us. It’s the least we can do for you; with you cleaning our mugs and sweeping the floor last night.”

 

“Last night? I wasn’t here last night.”

 

Sherlock’s head snapped to Mrs. Hudson and  John cocked his head in confusion, “What do you mean you didn’t come here last night? When I woke up this morning, all the wrapping paper and the dirty mugs were gone,” he turned to Sherlock, “did you do it, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock shook his head. Negative.

 

“Well, then who did? Did someone sneak into our flat?”

 

Sherlock shook his head again, “No. Ever since we repaired this flat, I’ve bolted the windows.”

 

“The door?”

 

“Locked after I let you in.”

 

“Well, it seems like you boys have yourselves a free little Christmas gift,” Mrs. Hudson winked, “Well off I pop! I have some gifts I have to deliver.” And with that she left the flat, leaving Sherlock dumbstruck. (Which was not a daily occurrence)

 

“Hey…. Sherlock….?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Since when was that box under our Christmas tree?”

 

Sherlock followed John’s eyes and saw a gold, shiny wrapped box under the tree, that hadn’t been there before, “I… don’t know.”

 

They both slowly stood up from their armchairs, reproachfully, walking slowly to the present. A small sticker label was on the golden packaging, _To: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and Rosie Watson._

 

John gently took the package and cautiously began to unwrap the shiny gold wrapping off of it. Inside, there was a silver box, and they both took the lid off. Inside, there was a golden, magnificent picture frame, with a small note set on it. They read it:

 

_Dear Sherlock, John, and Rosie,_

_We all have memories. This is so you can capture new ones._

_Happy Holidays._

_-A Dear Old Friend_

 

And Sherlock wasn’t an extremely religious person. Nor was he a person who still believed in old child tales. But all the same, he swore he could hear a faint ringing of bells, and a soft, “Ho-ho-ho!”


End file.
